


Assume

by brozilla



Series: just like fire [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: FWP, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brozilla/pseuds/brozilla
Summary: When they get to the hotel, tipsy from the cooler someone had sneaked in after the interviews, too loud for the old people who stare and judge as they stumble inside the fancy hall, Tyson’s already thinking about it. Him. Tyson’s thinking about him.





	Assume

**Author's Note:**

> We beat the Predators in Nashville. That's my excuse for this soft bs.  
> Edit: I posted this earlier but realized I hadn't edited it at all. All errors are my own.

When they get to the hotel, tipsy from the cooler someone had sneaked in after the interviews, too loud for the old people who stare and judge as they stumble inside the fancy hall, Tyson’s already thinking about it. Him. Tyson’s thinking about him.

It’s stupid, and dangerous, because they’ll be in a plane in a few hours, and even if Gabe calls them up to his room for the usual “raid of the mini bar” (which he probably will, and Hammy will probably get the worst of it), things won’t go further than that. They’re at a place where they can’t afford hangovers. If their Joker card is their speed, they can’t afford to take the foot out of the pedal, like coach says. Tyson already feels like he’s close to collapsing half the time, he’s so fucking tired.

Still, it’s the 6 am kind of tired. Your body is sore and your eyelids are heavy, but your mind is racing. You think you might be shaking out of your skin. That’s what he feels like. Watching Comphs, arm in arm with Sven, just a couple of steps in front of him, Tyson’s painfully fucking awake.

(…)

As soon as the door of their room closes Tyson just—pounces. There’s no better word for it. It’s what he does. He hears the click of the lock behind him, does a 180 on his shoes, and pounces. To his credit, Comphs’ not exactly surprised. He snorts and braces for impact, hands wrapping smoothly around Tyson’s waist, letting Tyson just fucking barrel into him in the clumsiest hug imaginable.

“Alright, Tys.” Comphs says, and Tyson feels his chest move like his own as he breathes. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. His beard itches when Tyson presses his face against it, but it’s nice. There’s a lot of good things that come with this beard. A lot of happiness. A lot of hope. And maybe he likes the feel of it, too.

“I’m really happy, man” Tyson mumbles. Comphs’ shoulder twitches like it tickles but he doesn’t move otherwise. “Fuckin’ hell of a rebound, there, eh?”

“I guess.” Comphs answers, and Tyson smiles. Such a man of words. “Right time, right place. You’re gonna get yours, too.”

“I’m not gonna get a rebound, I’m gonna get a proper snipe, buddy.” Tyson drags his face down the curve of Comphs’ neck, against the dip of his shoulder. He still has his shirt buttoned perfect. His suit jacket’s probably in Cap’s room. Comphs just leaves his shit everywhere. It’s the same at home. Tyson feels Comphs’ arms tighten around his back, his shoulder blades move under Tyson’s hands. He’s so fucking solid, the whole of him. It’s intoxicating. “Jo”

“Yeah”

“You think we could—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Comphs says, and pulls back enough just so he can hold Tyson’s jaw with one hand, thumb pressing lightly into his cheek, and look at him. Tyson had never been looked at so fucking thoroughly until they started—whatever. The embarrassment is almost immediate. He tries to bite down his smile but his mouth twists into it anyway.

The only light in the room is coming from the lamps by their beds, the usual warm yellow hotels offer. It softens Comphs’ features even more, makes him look oddly cuddly, sweet. Like a large, ginger teddy bear. It’s such a funny intrusive thought Tyson laughs in his face, and lets it dissolve into giggles when Comphs raises an eyebrow at him.

“I meant… I meant…” Tyson huffs out between fits “Nevermind.”

“O— _kay_ , someone needs their big boy nap” Comphs mutters, tapping a hand against his cheek before leaning further away. Tyson takes the hint and untangles his limbs from him, pushing down the strange sense of detachment that immediately claws at his chest. Comphs walks past him to get something from his bag, probably his toothbrush, if he even brought it. Tyson has an extra one in his stuff, but he’s not gonna share that information if it’s not necessary. He walks inside the bathroom and cringes at his own image in the mirror. Red, so fucking red. Eyes glassy, mouth bitten. If Comphs didn’t kiss him it’s because he didn’t want to.

Tyson always looks willing.

“Aren’t you a comedian” he calls, turning on the tap and splashing water against his face.

“Thanks” Comphs immediately says. “I have a lot of talent, Tys.”

(…)

Tyson wakes up in the middle of the night with Comphs shaking him by the bicep, and his first thought is, _Fucking hell, I overslept_.

“What time’s it? _What time’s it_?” Tyson slurs. He sits up in bed and frantically paws at the nightstand for his phone, but Comphs grabs him by the wrist, and that makes his whole body go frozen still.

“Hey, hey, chill. It’s okay. You’ve been in bed for like, 20 minutes.” Comphs says, and Tyson blinks fast, trying to regain his vision.

The weak moonlight through the curtains barely lets him see anything, but he can feel the mattress dip where Comphs’ sitting at the edge of the bed, and he can make out the shape of his bare chest, his smile. Tyson’s second thought is, _Am I dreaming?_ “What’s—what’s up, then? I’m really beat—”

“Why are you here?” Comphs interrupts, voice going weirdly soft. It makes the hairs on Tyson’s arms stand up.

“I—what?”

“Why’re you sleeping here, Tys? I fell asleep while you were in the bathroom, but I thought—you hate sleeping on the left bed.”

Tyson sits up straighter against the headboard, rubbing at his eyes. He’s too fucking sleepy for this shit, but it feels important. Comphs’ voice sounds important. He can count with one hand the number of times Comphs’ woken him up in the middle of the night, and three of those were because Kerfy knocked down the TV stand, again. “But… you are in that bed” he enunciates, slowly.

“Yeah” Comphs drawls, and they look at each other.

A second passes, then another, then another, then Tyson’s stomach drops, and his heart soars, “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ” Comphs mocks. He pushes his fist against Tyson’s shoulder. “C’mon.” His hand opens into Tyson’s shirt and he grabs it, yanking Tyson by it, and Tyson can do little but kick back the sheets, grab his pillow and follow, heart hammering right up his throat.

Now that some time has passed, he can see better, clear enough to count the freckles on Comphs’ back, follow the way his muscles move. He’s gotten slimmer, they all have, sharper at the edges. Tyson watches him slide into the bed, turn on his back and adjust the pillow, as always. Heat pools in the bottom of Tyson’s belly, lighting him up to the tips of his toes. It’s sudden and overwhelming, and Tyson almost groans out loud from how much he wants the guy.

Not like they can do anything, though. They have a very poorly defined unspoken deal. Tyson swallows and throws his pillow in Comphs’ direction. Maybe a little too hard.

“What the fuck!” Comphs yells, and Tyson shrugs, dropping onto Comphs like a big sack of potatoes. Comphs yelps out a squeaky “ _Tys_ ” and shoves at him halfheartedly. The bed is warm, the sheets ruffled and soft to the touch. Everything smells like Comphs’ Old Spice body cream, especially, and most importantly, the man himself.

“How old are you, fucking twelv—are you sniffing me?” Comphs grumbles. Tyson laughs. He rubs his nose against Comphs’ ear, letting his body topple to the side. One of his legs stays thrown over Comphs’ thighs, and he leaves it there, just because. This time, when Comphs turns his head to look at him, Tyson kisses him first.

There’s no tongue, not even a hint. It’s just a kiss. It’s nice. Comphs’ arms are still snaked around his back, and they immediately get tighter when Tyson reaches over to grab his pillow, like Comphs’ afraid he’ll try to move away. Like Tyson’s ever been the first one to move away.

“Why didn’t you get in here in the first place?” Comphs asks, voice going soft again. Tyson smashes their pillows together and lays his head close enough to breathe Comphs’ air.

“I don’t know” he whispers. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“You didn’t want to assume.” Comphs repeats. His face goes through a series of complicated emotions, mostly annoyance, and he pulls Tyson impossibly closer, until Tyson can map Comphs’ body against his own from top to bottom, the rise and fall of his chest, the quick pace of his heart. Comphs puts his lips on Tyson’s forehead and Tyson feels, rather than hears, the “Babe.”

“Yeah?” Tyson murmurs, licking his own lips. He’s still getting used to having someone with a deeper voice call him that, and it never fails to make his pulse ricochet. It never fails to please him, either. Privately. There are fingers treading through his hair, rubbing lightly at the scalp, and Tyson’s eyelids grow heavier, and heavier.

“You can assume.” Comphs says. Tyson nods, head partially lolling on Comphs’ shoulder, and falls asleep.

(…)

They miss breakfast, though.


End file.
